


sunflower boy and what always was

by kyojinouji



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Art Student!San, CEO!Yeosang, Contracts, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fashion Student!Hongjoong, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, San is an emotional artist, Smut, Sugar Baby Company, Yeosang is a patient saint, ceo!seonghwa, i was an art student but also a fool so bear with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28605987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyojinouji/pseuds/kyojinouji
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures.University was never meant to be easy, but there was a possibility it shouldn't be this difficult either. After a long-running war against his own bank account, San joins a sugar babying company known as Loan Star where “rich dudes that need something get easy access to a variety of willing contractors".In which San's apartment always has something wrong with it, tuition deadlines are right around the corner, art is impossible to sell if you refuse to let it go, and Yeosang just wants people to stop calling him an eligible bachelor.
Relationships: Background Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa, Choi San/Kang Yeosang, Mentioned Past Jung Wooyoung/Kang Yeosang but blink and you'll miss it, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 170





	sunflower boy and what always was

**Author's Note:**

> ❀ This fic was a request! ♡
> 
> I had a great time working on it and went a little overboard with the poetics again. 
> 
> Thank you for giving me the opportunity to spend time with this concept! ♡ ❀

> _ “I don't wanna be false art. _
> 
> _ Pretend we're picture perfect; _
> 
> _ when we're breaking beneath the surface. _
> 
> _ I don't wanna be false art. _
> 
> _ Make love like we deserve it to cover up what's hurting. _
> 
> _ I don't wanna be false art.” _
> 
> **_False Art_ ** _ \- Ben Kessler & Lizzy McAlpine _

* * *

_ Drip _ . The blue paint splatters onto the canvas like a vague memory. Thin, wispy, and impossibly transparent. He sighs for the umpteenth time and reaches for the wad of paper towels under the easel. Too much water and nowhere near enough acrylic. 

_ Drip _ . This time, he picks up the wrong glass and takes a drawn-out sip before the chalky taste coats his tongue. He spits it back out, gagging loudly, and nearly drops the cup onto the hardwood floor. His own soda sits on the  _ other _ table and mocks him with its carbonated grin. The old jam jar in his hand probably laughs just as loudly, smiles just as bright, when he registers its murky contents. Really, he ought to start setting his paint water elsewhere. 

_ Drip _ . 

“Hongjoong,” he calls, not quite moving from the cushioned stool. Getting up meant losing his train of thought. Since when did art require one? 

The older man appears in the doorway, red hair wild and uncombed. His overalls are stained with a dozen different marks, lyrics of songs that exist only in his mind, and Sharpie squiggles– notes of muses he saw in coffee shops and bookstores. If aesthetics were to be personified, Hongjoong would be the textbook definition of ‘Art Hoe’. 

“Is it finished?” he asks, pattering over to the easel with a glimmer in his eye. Oh, how San only wishes the answer to that question could be yes. Instead, he only frowns when Hongjoong’s eyebrows pinch together. “San, this is…” 

“Terrible, I know,” he finishes the fading sentiment with a sigh. “The show is in three days and I’m still scrambling for an excuse.”

Hongjoong leans against the table– the other one with that stupid glass of most certainly flat soda. His eyes flit between the canvas and the pallet in his roommate’s hands like a canary chasing picnic strawberries. No doubt, he’s scrambling for a compliment. But what was there to say when the project at hand was just another mess of blues, oranges, and yellows. 

“I’ll be honest, Sannie, there’s no emotion,” the older murmurs. San wets his lips with anticipation. The corner of his mouth is dry, but it isn’t like he made enough to buy something lavish like chapstick. “You have enough for the gallery already. Why not take a break?”

“Because our ceiling is leaking,” San says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And if I don’t produce something worth buying, then we’ll never get it fixed.” His voice is tired, strained through wire mesh and thorns; only the exhaustion was left behind. Gritty– like the water in his paint cup.

Hongjoong narrows his eyes. 

“Yunho said he was going to fix it,” he grunts, glancing up at the molding. The plaster is cracked and dark with dampness. When it rained, like it was today, the leak was aggravating. A constant pittering of droplets to count the seconds San watched dance away from him. Time that could be better spent producing something, anything, worth value.

“Well, he hasn’t yet,” San comments before Hongjoong’s wiggling toes catch his attention. One foot is concealed by a vivid yellow, plastered with tiny smiley faces. The other is bare, fresh red-glitter polish sparkling in the room’s low-light. With a gasp, he fumbles for a dry brush. Hongjoong says nothing as he walks back out of the room, a knowing grin coloring his lips.

For a starving artist, he knew how to clean up well. Especially as the midnight blue velvet of his suit lays gracefully upon his skin. The embroidery, while dainty and nearly invisible in certain lighting, stands out well in the gallery. Once again, the floor crawls with dozens of rich, eligible bachelors that emerged from the woodwork. San had Yunho and Hongjoong to thank for that. 

And speak of the Devil, the taller of the two sidles up with a champagne flute and shit-eating grin. 

“Anyone catch your eye?” 

“I’m here to promote my work,” San sighs, pushing a finger against Yunho’s chest with a pout. “Honestly, though, I don’t think any of them care about art. I mean, why would they?”

“Don’t be so down on yourself, bud,” Yunho mumbles, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “They seem like they can’t take their eyes off of you. They’d probably buy anything your flat-ass tries to sell them.”

San frowns. Sure, he could make a quick ten-grand off of some poor fool. But passing his paintings off on someone who wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment behind them? They would probably hang one of his pieces on their office wall for visitors to glance over. 

“That’s exactly what I don’t want to happen,” San says quietly. “Half of them are your dad’s employees. Wouldn’t it be weird to see them hit on your roommate?”

Yunho raises a dark brow and lifts his glass to his lips. He seems to think over the question, swishing it around with the alcohol, before swallowing dramatically.

“Not really. Just remember that you and I share a wall,” he shrugs, spinning off before San can land a gentle hit to his shoulder. Since their first year of university, Yunho had been like a brother to him. Maybe that was why there was a toxic, bubbly feeling in the pit of his stomach when he remembered what the semester’s close would bring with it.

His roommates and the majority of their friend group would be graduating. Only San would remain six footsteps behind the rest. As a part-time student, it was estimated that it would take another six semesters before he was freed from his academic prison. The thought makes him tip his head back as he lets the champagne coat his throat. Not quite his favorite, but it was better than murky water.

Maybe, he repeats the action far too many times. By the end of the night, he has turned down more propositions than he can count– rich individuals with silver-lined pockets who thought the art was only part of the available merchandise. It’s when a particularly handsy fellow tries to bargain with San for the night’s main piece- an acrylic ocean scene of a celestial being emerging from cerulean depths, a smile on their face but tears of stardust rolling down their cheeks– that the painter loses his cool. 

“You assholes are all the same,” he laughs humorlessly. “Money can’t buy you a soul. It doesn’t grant you empathy. You take one look at the raw emotions of an artist and think that the canvas would be a perfect addition to the empty space above your bathroom toilet. Give your guests a view while they piss.”

When he glances into the mass of whispering figures, a single stare draws his attention. The man doesn’t stand out because of his silvery hair or his weighted gaze. Instead, it’s the subtle smirk that blooms on his lips like a rose petal on uncertain ocean waves. Vivid and stable against the buzzing action around them. 

The individual disappears into the crowd before San can even think to pay attention. 

He sees Hongjoong rushing toward him before his spiel comes to an end. The red-haired man looks exhausted, irritated even, but the sight is paired with a suit that he spent hours reforming. Delicate wildflowers have been painted onto the sleek black material. Truly, it’s one of his best outfits yet. 

Beside him, a tall man with platinum blonde hair wears a similarly distressed expression. Park Seonghwa. Hongjoong’s current beau, co-founder of  _ ‘Eleven-Seventeen’ _ cosmetics, and the boss of the very man San just read the riot act to. Thankfully, his disgust does not seem to be aimed at San.

“Lee!” Seonghwa barks as soon as they’re in ear-shot. “Are you bothering Mr. Choi?”

“Of course not, sir!” the employee slurs. “I was offering to buy his work.”

“What purpose would you have for such an extravagant painting? Did you even give him a reason?” the blonde grits between his teeth, frowning when the other man shakes his head frantically. “You work in design, Lee. You know what a piece like this one means to a visual poet.”

Lee, however, doesn’t have a response. Instead, he turns on his heel with a huffed, ‘it’s just canvas and paint’. If not for Hongjoong’s death-grip on his lover’s upper bicep, San is certain that Seonghwa would have torn after the man like a rocket. 

“Thank you,” San murmurs, feeling bashful beneath the attention of the room. “I didn’t mean to ruin your evening.”

“Sannie,” Hongjoong says quickly, “this is your evening, babe. We’re just here to support you.” 

He offers a gentle smile and takes the younger’s hand carefully. Hongjoong holds him like he’s made of lilies and baby’s breath— tenderly as if he never wants to let go. 

San nods, not exactly sure how to approach the topic properly. Gratitude always came easily to him, but confidence was still finding its way. Above all, though, Hongjoong knows that. 

Even as Seonghwa calls it an evening, gentle expression hardening when San suggests they linger around the gallery for a bit longer, he thinks of a pink petal cast upon the shore and hair crafted from silver moonlight.

Seonghwa thinks only of his lover’s roommate as he books an Uber. 

“Hey Seonghwa,” San slurs as the four of them sit outside the venue. They picked up Yunho along the way, hidden among the tables of finger foods and champagne flutes. “Did you invite someone with platinum hair? Close to your color but more…” He wiggles his fingers as though it offers any explanation. 

What he doesn’t expect is for the older man to laugh and lend him his signature grimace— though he always insists it is a genuine smile. 

“Quite a few, but I think you’re talking about my partner.”

And at first, the word makes San’s feeble heart deflate in seconds.  _ Partner.  _ But a glance to the eldest’s right shows him a mop of sleepy red. Hongjoong was Seonghwa’s only lover, as far as San knew, which meant…

“ _ Oh _ ,” he mouths, eyes wide. “Your business partner? Kang Eunsang?”

“Kang Yeosang,” the other chuckles. “I’m surprised he showed up tonight. Usually, he avoids things like this, but he’s been interested in art for a while.”

“Or just finding an unlucky date to the next company banquet,” Hongjoong murmurs into the wool of his lover’s coat. It’s expensive, far above anything San could ever hope to own in his lifetime. And yet, Seonghwa makes the material look so casual— as though everyone could pull one off just as easily. 

Seonghwa bats at Hongjoong’s hand with a strangled noise. 

“Stop saying that! You’re not supposed to talk about your old clients.”

“Clients?” Yunho asks, leaning forward on the edge of the concrete bench. “I thought you stopped doing work for  _ Loan Star _ once you met Hwa, Hongjoong.”

Seonghwa’s face flushes crimson, matching his boyfriend’s hair, as the devil himself grins wildly. Nodding, he shimmies himself into an upright position. The kind that makes him look more like a storybook narrator and less like a disheveled art student.

“Course I did,” Hongjoong says, sprinkling in a bit of sunlit laughter. He was plastered, no doubt, but they all were. It was better than thinking about life; worrying about rent. “Hwa was a past client too, though. Yeosang, however, hired me through  _ Loan Star _ the same night I met my knight in shining armor.”

“We only met because he dragged you to that terrible dinner,” Seonghwa mumbles, pinching his eyebrows. “He’s willing to go to any risk just to get the vultures off of his back. Even if it means faking relationships.”

“It’s what the company is there for,” Yunho shrugs. “Rich dudes that need something get easy access to a variety of willing contractors. There aren’t any rules against hiring someone to play house with.”

The discussion sparks something in San’s chest.  _ Loan Star  _ was one of the only things he hadn’t considered joining— until now. He barely spoke to Hongjoong about it, but with their ceiling leaking into his art room and the tuition deadline chasing after him like a rabid dog, there weren’t many other options. Being a sugar baby was worth it; especially with the option to set hard limits.

“Does he still need someone?” San blurts out. The words don’t make their way back to his ears, blocked by the champagne cotton that fills them. So, he keeps going. “Yeosang, I mean. Do you think he still needs a  _ Loan Star _ ?”

Seonghwa’s head whips toward him. His brows furrow as he traces San’s features for any sort of apprehension. When he finds nothing but drunken courage, he sighs. 

“Are you offering? I can ask him if you would like. We have another dinner coming up soon.”

“Please,” San mumbles. He’s either a genius or a madman, but more often than not, they walk the same tightrope.

The answer comes nearly a week later. 

A ten-hour unexpected shift left San’s muscles screaming for a warm bath. He’d even see if Hongjoong was willing to lend him some of those fancy oils and Epsom salts he kept in the cabinet. Anything that could numb the pain of living just for a second.

The apartment door clicks open as he pulls his key from the lock with a sigh. As soon as he steps over the threshold, he’s met with whatever episode of Project Runway that his roommates were watching. Just as Tim Gunn attempts to declare the episode a feather-filled disaster, the TV volume plummets. 

“You don’t have to turn it down for me,” San mumbles, pulling off his shoes. The black canvas of his Vans has begun to wear terribly thin. “I’m just going to grab a bath and work on homework. Joong, do you might if I–”

When he finally lifts his head, meeting the gaze of the person on the couch, he realizes that it’s neither of his roommates. Instead, he finds himself staring at the man from the endless gallery crowd. He’s wearing a more casual suit this time; the jacket cast off and folded beside him. His tie has been loosened messily while a dark stain spreads along the white material of his button-up. Yet, he still commands the room with the dignity of the moon as he offers a bashful smile in San’s direction. 

Kang Yeosang.

“Yeosang, shit, I’m so sorry!” a voice calls from the hall. As Hongjoong emerges from the depths of his bedroom, San frowns when he notices the wadded up fabric in his hands. It’s one of San’s old band shirts. 

“You’re fine, Hongjoong,” Yeosang says with a delicate chuckle. Despite his disorganized appearance, he covers his mouth when he laughs. A proper gentleman; way out of San’s league.

“San isn’t home yet, but you’re about the same size, so I figured–” When Hongjoong finally looks up, his voice fails him. It only makes the younger snort before he waves with a shrug.

“I just got here,” he offers. “Of course, I don’t mind you borrowing my shirt. But what…” he notices the wad of paper towels beside an empty takeout cup. Iced coffee. The dots connect almost immediately.

It’s like Yeosang reads his mind as his eyes flit between the plastic container and the stain. 

“Hongjoong doesn’t take well to being startled,” the older man says. “Seonghwa was supposed to put me in contact with you, but we’ve been busy for the last week. I just so happened to see Mr. Kim out and about.”

“He tried to call out to me like eight times, but I had my headphones in.”

“I’m also rather soft-spoken,” Yeosang adds with a shy smile. “I thought it would be better to tap his shoulder. Instead, I think I got what I deserve.” Yeosang’s voice sows seeds into his veins; deep, honey-laden, and graced by a subtle lisp. For some reason, it makes San’s heart dance. 

San nods, not exactly sure where to go from here. Thankfully, Yeosang seems to sense it as he stands and brushes off his pants. With three steps, he accepts the t-shirt from Hongjoong’s grasp. 

“I’ll go change,” he says. When neither roommate steers him in a specific direction, the blonde gestures vaguely around the apartment. “Where is your bathroom?” 

San’s mouth flounders open for a second before a giggle tumbles out of it.  _ Right _ . With an outstretched hand, he points to the last door at the end of the hall. It’s only when the pittering of Yeosang’s socks– expensive, designer ones by the looks of it– disappears along with him that the youngest turns toward Hongjoong with a strangled noise.

“You couldn’t have warned me? Not even a text?” he whispers, hoping his tones don’t seep beneath the closed door. “You dumped your coffee on a hot guy, brought him back to watch Project Runway, and I almost asked him if I could use your bubble bath bullshit?” 

Hongjoong snorts as he rants, waving him off with the flick of his wrist. 

“You’re always welcome to my self-care shelves, Sannie. I’ve been trying to pawn off a sheet mask on you for months,” he says, wandering to the heap of paper towels still resting on the floor. Evidently, they tried to dry poor Yeosang off once they got to the apartment. “And sorry, it was all a little unexpected. But at least you guys can talk things through now?” 

While the older is right, it doesn’t make the fizzy feeling leave the pit of San’s stomach. If anything, it only makes it worse when he hears the bathroom door creak open. Resolved to stew in his own panic, he pouts at the redhead’s receding form as he wanders to the kitchen trash. He would most certainly have choice words for the other artist later. 

“Does it fit?” Hongjoong asks, cocking his head when Yeosang passes him. The CEO hums and tugs at the hem of the shirt. 

“It does, thank you,” he replies. When his attention lands on San, the younger feels his heart jump into his throat. “You like  _ My Chemical Romance? _ ” 

_ Oh, heavens above.  _

Of all the shirts that Hongjoong had the opportunity to grab, why did it have to be one of the oldest in his collection? With an awkward laugh, San’s hand finds its way to the back of his neck. 

“I was really into them in high school. Probably about a year before they broke up.”

One of Yeosang’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. For a moment, San’s breath catches. Great, now the dude knew his potential sugar baby was a recovering scene kid. Maybe it would inspire him to buy the younger a brand new wardrobe. 

Instead, Yeosang grins. 

“I never really got over that. 2013, right? I was in college, but I spent my entire young adult life wrapped up in their music,” he says. “You have good taste, dude.”

So maybe, sugar babying wasn’t the worst lifestyle.

“Next Saturday at 8 PM,” San murmurs, glancing at the contract Yeosang had emailed him. While it would have been so much easier to just text back and forth, the older man was stuck in his ways. For tax benefits, he insisted that they still use  _ Loan Star _ ’s website for all communication. At first, the suggestion makes San feel disposable; like he was nothing more than a luxury product being purchased from a high-end warehouse— one that could be returned if he didn’t meet certain needs. 

Except, Yeosang didn’t use the service often. He was only looking for someone to act as a romantic scapegoat. Anyone willing to pretend that they were in a relationship while fending off those who would chase the eligible bachelor for his money and power. Even then, he had yet to find the right match.

“I tried it once, but then my date evidently got bored of my company,” he had joked, glancing toward Hongjoong’s closed door. “However, I can’t say I’m upset. Seonghwa is happier than I’ve ever seen him.” 

Without a doubt, it made San burst into a smile rivaling sunbeams. 

The contract was simple. San was to attend the banquet with Yeosang, and they would pretend to be a happy couple. 

There were only two rules:

  1. Consent and communication were required. 
  2. Things could never become serious between the two of them.



Yeosang would pay him whatever he asked. While money and gifts were two of the listed options, the third caught him off guard. Enough so that it makes him sputter aloud into the nearly empty bookstore. 

Sex. 

It wasn’t like Hongjoong kept that portion of  _ Loan Star _ a secret, however, it was Yeosang’s comment next to the bullet point that made his skin tingle. In italic 12-point font, the word  _ ‘negotiable’ _ is written. Negotiable?

As the bell to the shop chimes, he shoves his phone into his pocket with a soft whine. He would never pick the option, no matter how many months it had been since he had gotten laid. He wouldn’t, but at the same time, would Yeosang? 

There isn’t time to dwell on the question as the customer places a stack of textbooks on the counter with a sigh. Returns. It’s far enough into the semester that she must be dropping out. 

San offers her a sympathetic smile as they begin the process. 

Saturday greets him with a nightmarish shift at the coffee shop, because obviously, two jobs was the perfect number for someone struggling to stay afloat. It began with a multi-frappuccino order at the ripe time of 7 AM and ended with the espresso machine smoking like an autumn bonfire. By the time he left work, he was wearing more drinks than they actually sold. 

“You smell like fire,” Yunho murmurs as San waddles past. With a grunt, the younger turns around quickly. He meant to glare, but that doesn’t mean he can keep the dimples hidden when he sees the puppy-eyed stare his roommate casts back at him. He was concerned, not sarcastic. And so, San leaps into his lap. 

“Are you calling me hot?” When Yunho groans, San smirks. “That’s because technology hates me and I almost burnt down the campus cafe,” he giggles. “It could have been a fun little party. You should have been there.” Yunho pushes him away until he tumbles onto their floor. 

“I just took a shower,” he cries, raising his sleeve to his nose. “Don’t rub your mistakes off of me, stinky.” Before the artist can stand up and march toward their bathroom, Yunho points in the direction of San’s bedroom. “Hongjoong said he left you something.”

With an excited clap, San tears through the hall. Hongjoong leaving  _ anything _ for him was always a welcome experience. Yunho, on the other hand, would leave empty snack bags on his desk and call it a gift. 

On his bed, a black suit with deep red roses embroidered into the sleeves and pants has been laid out. Rather than a regular jacket, Hongjoong opted for a tight blazer. Grinning, he holds it to his chest and turns to face the mirror. The front was embellished with tiny, black-ice crystals. From a distance, they appeared to shape a flower of their own. 

Once again, the older had outdone himself. San would have to send the man a million selfies later; even if they’re were attending the same event. Far after he was showered, fed, and rested for the long night ahead. 

When he sinks onto the couch, cradling a bowl of ramen as Yunho plays some video game beside him, the dull buzz of anxiety begins in the pit of his stomach. Yeosang had agreed to pick him up forty-five minutes before the event, and even with a full hour before that deadline, San felt like he was scrambling along an icy path with no footholds.

“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Yunho throws out. The split second he looks away from the screen is enough for the TV to flash with a ‘You Died’ message. It’s dripping red font mocks the dancer as he tosses his controller onto the table with a groan. 

“He’s not a killer, is he?” San mumbles, slurping his way through the noodles. “I mean, Seonghwa is his business partner, but how do we know that Hwa isn’t one either?”

“Seonghwa cried when Hongjoong asked if they could marathon the How to Train Your Dragon movies. Bystanders thought Hongjoong  _ proposed _ to him,” Yunho snorts, leaning against the cushions. “If Yeosang can tolerate that kind of behavior from a man in his early thirties, I’m pretty sure he’s not a killer.”

“I think it’s cute,” San sniffs. As the broth depletes in his bowl, the nerves only seem to grow. “What if Yeosang is only hiring me out of pity–”

“Dude,” Yunho interrupts, “give him a chance to disappoint you before you start assuming things, okay? If he didn’t run for the hills after Hongjoong dumped an entire Americano down his shirt, I’m pretty sure he’s serious about doing this thing with you.” 

With a chuckle, San reaches out to ruffle his roommate’s hair. The older boy grins, dark strands sticking up in every direction, and leans into the touch. 

“So, you’ll put out a missing persons report if I don’t come home?” San asks. As the remaining ramen broth warms his tongue, salty and comforting, Yunho shrugs. 

“Definitely not,” he laughs. “If you disappear, I’m forging your will and taking over your  _ League _ profile.” The comment rides up into a higher pitch as San shoves him lightly. As if Yunho didn’t already know all of his account info.

When he finally pulls on Hongjoong’s carefully tailored suit, he’s hit with another overwhelming wave of nerves. It’s like someone dropped a match into the pit of his stomach just to see how the fire ignited his veins. San sighs and leans against the doorframe.

This time, though, it’s thanks to the way the fabric moves on his skin. Silky smooth and rippling under the light, he can’t help but smirk when the pants draw his attention. Somehow, Hongjoong always crafted slacks that gave the illusion of an ass. For that, San was grateful. 

His makeup is simple, as to not draw away the focus from the art adorning his slender figure. Dark eyeliner, smoked out just enough to look sultry without being too much, and the lightest touch of red tint to the center of his lips. He buffed it out to enhance the plush feature while remaining natural. Aside from the tiniest bit of brow pomade, dark brown mascara, and soft red eyeshadow, there is nothing left for him to do. 

So, he opts to gel his dark hair back, letting one or two pieces fall into his face, before marching out his bedroom door with a single once-over. He was hot. Undeniably so. But that didn’t make his confidence skyrocket in the way he hoped it would. Instead, it made his nose scrunch the moment he glanced toward the clock. 7:30 PM. 

“Are CEOs ever early to stuff?” San asks, using a forearm to hold himself upright as he tugs on a pair of black Oxfords. “I don’t want to wait a million years for–” 

Before the statement can fall from his lips, the email tone on his cell permeates the air. Only one person would send something at this hour during the weekend. San can feel his lips pull into a dimpled grin as he opens the message. 

**Kang.Yeo99@LoanStar.com**

We’re still doing this right ? 

Sorry, I got anxious so I’m here early.

I’m in the parking garage, just come down when you’re ready.

**07Sanshine10@LoanStar.com**

Yeah! Don’t worry (:

I’ll be down in a minute. 

“You’re certain he’s not a serial killer?” San asks Yunho. The older squawks and shoves him toward the door. 

The parking deck is dimly lit– only a few of the lightbulbs still work properly. Evidently, maintenance had not paid their safety enough mind. He’s only just beginning to consider all of the potential hiding spots that someone could be tucked away in when he rounds one of the concrete turns. Someone’s voice startles him out of his thoughts with a yelp. 

“San!”

Directly ahead of him, a red and black Mustang sits idly. Before he can think of hightailing it out of dodge, one of the tinted windows rolls down to reveal a familiar shock of platinum hair. Yeosang, smiling sheepishly, casts him a shy wave. 

“I guess it’s becoming a habit,” he says as San approaches. “Me scaring people, I mean. It happens in the office too.” 

When the younger slides into the passenger seat, he feels the heat of the other’s gaze trailing his body. A flush spreads to San’s cheeks as he watches Yeosang’s eyes drag up and down his figure with something kin to appreciation. 

“Hongjoong really does know his way around a sewing machine,” the CEO says. “I keep telling Seonghwa to convince him to work under us when he graduates. I’m tired of outsourcing designs from people who hardly give our models the time of day.” 

For a second, San is absolutely embarrassed. Was it shameful to expect Yeosang’s compliments? This was all just a ruse to keep the older off of the market– away from greedy fingers. As though sensing his change in demeanor, Yeosang’s gaze softens. 

“You look beautiful. I’m sure I’ll have to keep affluentials away from you all night, San.” The way he says his name is like a song; rolling off of his tongue as rich as cinnamon hot chocolate sipped in front of a fireplace. When the blush returns to the San’s cheeks for a second time, it is sure to stay there for the rest of the evening. 

They talk sparsely on the drive to the banquet hall, carried only by the soft music whispering through Yeosang’s stereo. It’s nothing San is familiar with, but it still douses him in cottony nostalgia. Even as they pull into the valet line and the older ushers his car off with a mumbled, ‘not a scratch, please’, San finds himself oddly comfortable beside him. And as Yeosang intertwines their fingers, he pretends not to let his racing heart overpower his rational thought. 

“This is fine?” Yeosang asks, lifting their joined hands. When San nods, electing it easier than actually speaking, the CEO makes a bizarre face. “Tell me out loud that it’s okay, please. I don’t want to force you into anything.”

And there it is, the pounding of his heart against his ribs. It makes his head spin. Swallowing, San smiles. 

“It’s perfect,” he says. “We talked about it on the contract. All physical contact is fine. I don’t have any hard limits with PDA.”

“Still,” Yeosang murmurs to himself. It’s somehow reassuring to know that the older was considerate of his comfort. Not that San had any experience with sugar daddies, but he had heard horror stories in the past. More often than not, they spilled from Hongjoong’s mouth like molten lava when he was tipsy.

As Yeosang leads him into the banquet hall, San can feel the way the universe shifts. It’s like being pulled through a portal into another dimension. The expensive champagne and aged wine selection being carried around the party, the chandelier dripping suspended crystals, even the wait staff carrying platters of charcuterie samplings. It would be just as easy for the guests to take the extra steps to the refreshment table, but having the meal brought to you just emphasized the sheer wealth permeating the room. 

And it doesn’t help that all of the attention lands on them the second they step into the event. His shoes sink uncomfortably into the red, carpeted runner as various individuals begin to descend on them like koi in a pond. 

“Mr. Kang, it’s an honor to finally meet you in person,” some woman says. Her eyelashes are no doubt fake and embellished with tiny rhinestones. San imagines them flying off of her face; birds taking off from a field. “Who is this?” 

She doesn’t hide the disgust that laces her tone. Or rather, she tries to sugarcoat the words with her sickly sweet smile, but San is a painter. Her expression doesn’t seep into her eyes; thick, oil paint instead of watercolor. She is faker than the figures he draws from his own mind. 

And Yeosang knows it too. 

With a blinding turn of his mood, the older wraps an arm around San’s waist. He pulls him closer, like ivy along ancient brick, and San can feel the way he shakes slightly. As though he’s more afraid of the crowd than he lets on. So, San takes the unsteady initiative before Yeosang can speak.

“Choi San,” he says happily, extending a hand for her to shake. When she only places her fingertips against his palm, he understands the message all too well. So, he lifts them to his lips, stops a centimeter before the soft flesh meets, and mimics pressing a kiss to the back. If he was to play the role of a gentleman, he would do just that. When he pulls away, she rewards him with a near curtsy. 

“My partner,” Yeosang adds. “If you’ll excuse me though, Ms. Jung, I happen to see your son across the way. I have yet to introduce San to him.” Without saying anything further, the blonde begins to lead them away from the woman’s absolutely befuddled expression. When Yeosang finally breaks free from the circle, his eyes are wide. 

“Are you alright?” San whispers as they continue moving through the masses. No one else tries to approach them in the same way, but it’s obvious that Yeosang’s goal is to find sanctuary. Anywhere away from the madness. Therefore, San steps in to do his job as a  _ Loan Star _ . 

Once he manages to wiggle them into a secluded alcove, outside of the main ballroom, Yeosang leans against his side with a sigh. It’s a stairwell, San realizes, but it’s quiet enough for them to have a conversation. As Yeosang’s breathing regulates, it’s obvious that San did the best thing he could. 

“Thank you,” Yeosang whispers, not quite lifting his gaze from the pointed toes of his shoes. They have to be patent leather with the way the glitter under the lights. “It’s probably stupid for a CEO to be uncomfortable in gatherings.” 

San hums quietly. Yeosang’s fingers are still intertwined with his in a white-knuckled grip. 

“Being a company executive doesn’t make you any less human,” San says softly. “We all have things we’re scared of,” he pauses. “Do you think this leads to the roof?”

Yeosang cocks his head with the question, but follows as the San ushers him up the stairs. Sure, five sets are enough to make anyone winded, but the rush of fresh air hitting them as they push open the final door is like a snowglobe cracking on linoleum tile. Sudden, unexpected, and potentially dangerous. If they stayed outside for too long, they may never want to go back into that mess downstairs. 

San guides him to the fenced-in edge of the roof with a reassuring grin. Dimples on full show lips vibrant coral in the golden afterglow of the streetlamps. He motions for Yeosang to sit down beside him and snorts when he does. Yeosang stares at him and there is a moment that the world seems to slow. Just long enough for the older to come clearly into view. 

His face is youthful. The kind of ethereal that made age seem like a myth. If Yeosang wouldn’t have told him directly, he would never have assumed that the older had already turned thirty. He held the kind of beauty that even the stars grew envious of. 

“This is what I’m scared of,” San says, gesturing around them. 

“Heights?” Yeosang asks brows pinched. It draws a tiny giggle from San’s bubbling chest. Fizzy like carbonated soda dissolving fairy floss. 

“No,” the brunette smiles, pointing more specifically at the clouds above them. “I’m terrified of space. The concept of existing in such a vast universe, being just a grain of sand in some massive hourglass. Being alive, I think, is both the most incredible and horrifying thing we can be.”

At first, he expects Yeosang to laugh. When he told Hongjoong and Yunho the same thing, that was their reaction. Albeit, they were sleep-deprived and tipsy in the middle of finals week. Still, it had made the one thing that lived in his mind seem like a dust-bunny under a bed rather than the monster that threatened him. 

Instead, Yeosang’s eyes sparkle like the heavens as his mouth pops into a tiny ‘o’. 

“That’s true,” he says, craning his neck to stare at the sky above them. “It’s really endless, isn’t it?”

“My grandparents always said that the sky was the limit,” San chuckles, squeezing Yeosang’s hand gently. His other fingers mesh with the metal of the fence as he holds on tight. “Maybe they’re why I cling to things that don’t matter. Canvases I’ll never give away. Every time my apartment ceiling starts to leak, I wonder if that’s the universe trying to get closer to us.”

Yeosang giggles. It’s that sound again– bells before a delicate spring rain. This time, he doesn’t muffle it with his palm. 

“So, you saw me there?” San grins, recalling the night in the gallery. “I wasn’t sure you knew what was going on.”

“At first, I thought you weren’t being offered enough. I’ll admit it, that piece was worth far more than the price Mr. Lee was trying to throw your way,” Yeosang says, fiddling with his tie. “But then, I heard how desperately you were trying to make people understand. Your work is more than something pretty to look at– it’s part of you.”

The warmth in San’s chest grows exponentially with every word.

They sit in silence on the concrete roof for what feels like hours. And undeniably, San is comfortable. Yeosang smiles when the younger begins to hum a quiet song and laughs when he offers his hand to pull him up. As they adjust their suits and prepare to rejoin society, Yeosang hesitates. 

“Your ceiling,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Do you want me to call a repair crew for it?” 

“You don’t have to,” San says. “Yunho was supposed to last month, but–”

“Consider it a thank you. Not only for coming with me but for treating me like something more than just some rich guy who owns a luxury company.” He chews his lip, irritating the plush skin. Before San can tell him not to worry about it, the blonde is speaking again. “I know what you’re going to say, but please, let me do it? It can be part of your pay for tonight.”

_ Right _ . 

This was a gig. He wasn’t here to spend his night with the wonderful, caring man that his heart decided to do somersaults for. He was here to make money on the side and graduate college. So, with a tight smile, he agrees. And for a second, he hopes the wind carries his response far, far away from the other’s ears. At least then, they might have a chance. 

When he wakes up, San can’t help but wonder if it had all been a dream. But as the morning light touches his fingertips, cell cradled in the palm of his hand, he sees three separate notifications on his screen. One, an email confirmation from a repair company that would be arriving the next day. Another, Yeosang’s message thanking him for his company the night before. And the third was unexpected. A bank notification of a direct deposit that had been issued to his account. 

Opening that tab, he realizes that Yeosang had done more than he had asked. Instead of only paying for the maintenance, he also had transferred $900 into San’s savings. It makes the younger fumble through his open applications like a comet. 

**07Sanshine10@LoanStar.com**

You did too much! 

How can I send some back? 

**Kang.Yeo99@LoanStar.com**

I’ll only take it back if you are uncomfortable. 

You did more than enough for me. 

Consider it a thank you.

**07Sanshine10@LoanStar.com**

well, stop thanking me ):

But I appreciate it. 

So thank you.

**Kang.Yeo99@LoanStar.com**

You’re welcome, Sanshine.

If you really want to pay me back, the company

plans to have another dinner soon. 

They call it a dinner, but it’s really a bar crawl.

Seonghwa will be there; probably with Hongjoong.

Would you like to join me?

**07Sanshine10@LoanStar.com**

Let me know the day and time. 

I’ll be there (:

And he wonders, not for the first time, if he’s allowed to feel this way. He doesn’t remember his dreams, so the image of Yeosang bathed in starlight might just be reality. It makes the tiny hummingbird in his chest flutter wildly. 

As soon as he putters into the kitchen, makeup smudged from the night before and pajama t-shirt loose on his frame, he catches a whiff of fresh coffee. With a grin, he turns to face the only culprit who would be present long enough to make such a decision. 

Jongho sits at the counter. Fork lifted to his lips, he snorts when San winks in his direction. 

“Morning, kid,” San says, pulling a mug from the cupboard. Bless Choi Jongho for existing. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence?” 

Jongho’s nose wrinkles as he watches San dump sugar and creamer into his coffee. Pretentious iced Americano types, of course, didn’t seem to appreciate the finery of a good 80-20 caffeinated cup of milk.

“Saw the news articles,” the youngest says, tipping his breakfast into his mouth. “When did you start dating the other founder of  _ Eleven-Seventeen? _ ” Oh.

San shrugs and takes a sip of his brew. “Didn’t. I’m just helping him keep the sharks off of his back.” As he speaks, he watches the way Jongho’s dark eyes widen. How could someone look so innocent but so mature at the same time? At this point, San isn’t certain that the other man is actually younger than him. Not with the way Jongho has always radiated the aura of an older brother.

“ _ Loan Star?  _ When did Hongjoong pull you into that?” 

“He didn’t, really,” San says, finally moving to stand on the other side of the counter. “Seonghwa extended my gallery invitation to the company. Yeosang, being his business partner, decided to pop in for a bit. We didn’t speak, but he saw me making a fool out of myself.”

Jongho grins cheekily, his gums on full show. 

“Did you refuse to sell another painting?” he asks. San’s silence makes him giggle. “You’re such a sentimental nerd. I love you more than life itself, do you know that?” When the older flicks his forehead, he immediately retracts the statement. 

“So what if I did?” San groans, pinching the space between his brows. “You understand where I’m coming from, don’t you? People buy tickets to your performances, just to see you.”

Jongho frowns, “They come to watch the characters I portray.” 

But to San, it is the same thing. He’s seen the way Jongho acts– how he sings. Years from now, it’s obvious that the boy will make a big name for himself. The actor, above all else, lays his soul bare for an audience to gawk at with every show. San doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he opts to enjoy breakfast with one of his best friends. 

“Hey, who let you in?” San realizes slowly. Neither of his roommates appear to be awake or even home for that matter. And apparently, the question is hilarious to the younger as he takes a sip of his coffee with a smirk. “You little shit, did you break in again? You at least used the door this time, right?” the artist whines, glancing toward the windows. Everything seems to still be in place, even as Jongho shrugs. 

Yeosang’s email comes later that evening, when San’s paintbrush doesn’t move across the canvas and his mind draws an impenetrable wall of inky black. __

_ Friday at 7 PM. _

Thankfully, it’ll be on the weekend. However, it’s also the same day he promised his grandparents that he would come home for the afternoon. It was rare for him to have Fridays off in the first place, but having to go back on his word for something that felt so scandalous made his throat constrict. 

_ It isn’t _ , he reminds himself,  _ there’s nothing scandalous about helping someone and getting paid to do it. _

Even so, he sighs; resolved to simply agree to everything and deny nothing. It left him little time to sit down at his easel and even less to think of a scene to slap onto the canvas. But with tuition weighing down on him, even as a part-time student, he couldn’t say now. Instead, he would just pin all of his edges on the confines of an embroidery hoop and pray that the needle of life didn’t drag its thread too roughly through him.

When San climbs into Yeosang’s Mustang, he cringes at the way the older man’s eyes linger on his face. He had tried, desperately, to conceal the dark circles that formed there. But even shadow and liner did little to distract from the dullness that painted his features. 

“Are you alright?” Yeosang asks as the artist buckles his seatbelt. “If you don’t feel well, we really don’t have to do this, San. It’s just a silly meet-up.”

“No,” San says with a smile. He isn’t sure when he placed his hand over Yeosang’s on the console. “I’m fine, just tired. Work has been rough.” 

It doesn’t seem to comfort the blonde, but thankfully, he doesn’t push either. He offers San a sympathetic look, laced with thinly-veiled concern, and puts the car in drive. 

Once again, the stereo sings distant melodies that San is certain he’s heard before, but can’t put a finger on. Every time he has it in him to ask, the song changes. It’s like the radio itself knows exactly how long it will take San to find his footing and it pulls the rug out from under him just before he can stand. 

“They’re actually my friends this time,” Yeosang says softly as he locks the doors. “Mostly. There are a few that I would only call acquaintances. We’ll still have to keep up the ruse, but I want you to have fun.” As he reaches for San’s hand, his dark eyes meet the younger’s. “If you find someone you want to go home with, just give me a heads up.”

San gasps quietly, fumbling over his words. 

“I wouldn’t– I’m here with you?” He doesn’t mean for it to spill out of his mouth like a question, but as soon as it does, he’s almost glad. It seems to catch Yeosang off-guard entirely. The blonde freezes, his face blank. And when the corners of his eyes scrunch up, wrinkling his nose, San can only think about how cute the expression is. 

“Okay,” Yeosang mutters, hiding his lips behind his free hand. “Sorry, I just thought you dressed like that because you were hoping to get laid.” 

He’s blunt enough that it makes San snort loudly. Of course, the thought crossed his mind. However, he was hoping that the person he would hook up with, if anyone, wouldn’t be a stranger. Not now. 

“You told me to dress casual,” San chuckles, glancing at his outfit. It’s a simple pin-striped black and white button-up, ripped black jeans, and combat boots. Sure, he threw on a pair of fishnets under the jeans, but it was more or less for himself. “I wasn’t sure what your definition of the word was,” he finishes, shrugging when Yeosang scoffs. 

Evidently, the CEO had a similar one to his own, though. He had paired a grey t-shirt with a red and black flannel. He even wore jeans nearly identical to San’s. 

“I don’t always wear suits,” Yeosang laughs as they flash their IDs at the bouncer. “They’re stuffy and annoying. Hell, I hardly wear them in the office unless Seonghwa throws me into a business meeting.”

San could listen to him talk for hours. Horrifyingly enough, even meeting his coworkers is less of a task than the younger expected. Possibly because the blonde’s arm is thrown securely over his shoulder. 

Feeling the weight of someone’s gaze on him, San glances up to see Hongjoong smirking at him from across the table. In response, he raises a single eyebrow as the redhead dramatically rolls his eyes. 

“So, San,” a brunette named Wooyoung says suddenly, leaning against the table with a cat-like grin. “When did our Yeosangie steal your heart? Was it before or after he took the stick out of his ass?” The boy narrowly dodges Yeosang’s fist as the older playfully swings at his shoulder. 

Nonetheless, it makes San want to play along. If it’s thanks to the two drinks Yeosang had already bought him, he wouldn’t know. So, he places his elbows on the table and fakes a dreamy sigh. 

“It was probably when he saved me from that pack of ruthless bears,” San exhales. “Or when he helped me across the street like the feeble, old man I am.” 

Both suggestions earn him separate pinches to his cheeks. He yelps, but relishes the way the group laughs. He could bask in the light of Yeosang’s relieved smile and deep giggles all day. Especially when the older pulls him a bit closer to his lap. 

For a second, San hesitates. It wasn’t like Hongjoong was sitting in his own seat either– not with Seonghwa right there. But Yeosang hasn’t given him a verbal cue. He chews the inside of his cheek, building his courage before the moment passes, and finally bites the bullet. 

With his lips to Yeosang’s ear, he whispers, “Would it be okay if I...?”

Instantly, Yeosang nods and issues a soft, ‘yes’, under his breath. When he slides himself onto the blonde’s plush thighs, he can’t fight the war song that drums in his chest. Yeosang shifts under him slightly, his hands finding San’s waist, and the younger’s heart leaps into his throat. 

Someone hoots across the table, Mingi possibly, but the sound of the bar around them makes it difficult to place voices to faces. Especially with San refusing to meet anyone’s gaze as Yeosang’s grip doesn’t move, like he is holding him in place. 

After a few moments, San realizes that is exactly what the other man is doing when he leans back, aiming to rest against Yeosang’s chest, but instead hearing a soft hiss when he moves too abruptly. Skinny jeans be damned, it hits him like a brick. Almost to prove the point to himself, San tests the waters by wiggling, just enough to jostle the older. 

“San,” he huffs, squirming when the artist tries it again. “Stop moving, please.”

And he shouldn’t be laughing, but really, he can’t help it. Not when he turns to face Yeosang with a seemingly innocent expression. 

“Is something wrong?” he asks playfully, smirking when the older presses his forehead against his neck. “You seem uncomfortable.” 

“You,” Yeosang whispers, his breath tickling the chains that dangle from San’s ear, “need to sit still.” 

Hook, line, and sinker. 

With an impish twinkle in his eye, San shifts his weight so that he feels exactly what Yeosang’s problem is. There’s enough noise in the club to conceal the quiet grunt the older releases. Finally, Yeosang manages to trap him against his chest as his arms wrap around San’s waist. 

“I have to use the bathroom,” San whines, hoping that he lays the emotion on thick. To anyone else, it seems like a perfectly reasonable request. But when the brunette glances across the booth, Hongjoong’s shoulders are shaking up and down as he hides his laughter in Seonghwa’s shoulder.  _ Asshole _ . He’d have to remind him that the walls in their apartment were thin.

With a sigh, Yeosang lets him go. However, as San stands, he tugs the CEO’s sleeve gently. “I don’t come to this bar a lot. Help me find the restrooms?” he says, smiling when Yeosang nods. As he slides from the booth, San intertwines their fingers and steps in front of him. 

“Wasn’t I in charge of guiding you?” Yeosang asks the moment they’re out of earshot. “What exactly has gotten into you tonight?”

San snorts as he pushes through the crowd. 

“You won’t let me send the money back, so I was trying to figure out what I can do in return.” He shoulders open the heavy door and checks to see if they have company before turning to face Yeosang. “Your contract says that sex is negotiable.”

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated,” the older mumbles, chewing on the skin around his thumb. “You’re beautiful, San, but my last relationship was a disaster. It’s why I was looking for someone to be my  _ Loan _ .”

“We prefer the term  _ Stars _ ,” San chuckles, leaning against the tile wall. The chill bites into his flushed skin, but it’s a welcome distraction. “Is your last relationship connected to what you wrote on the contract?” 

Yeosang nods, “I was engaged, briefly, to my childhood friend. He’s out there actually.” As he speaks, his gaze drops to their intertwined hands. “Wooyoung is brilliant. He’s everything I could have hoped for in a partner, but his family wanted to interfere with the tiniest parts of our lives. They were more concerned about status and wealth than Wooyoung’s health. And I realized that we were better as friends. It didn’t go over well when I called off the wedding though.” 

San pauses, scrambling for purchase as the landslide admission knocks him off balance. 

“Does he know about our deal?” he asks, his heart shattering for the other man. When Yeosang shakes his head, San lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, reaching out until his free hand brushes Yeosang’s cheek. “I’m so sorry. I know it probably doesn’t mean much coming from someone almost a decade younger than you, but I think what you did was for the best. It was mature, even if it was painful.” 

His fingers find the space under Yeosang’s chin as he tilts his head up. When Yeosang meets his eyes, there is a breath before he hears the older man’s voice. 

“Can I be selfish?” Yeosang asks. “Can I kiss you?” 

“Always,” San responds, surging forward to press their lips together. Forget the filthy bar bathroom and the pounding music just outside the door. The only thing he can feel is the warmth of Yeosang and the way their mouths move. As though they belong there. As though this was more than a contract. 

Yeosang pulls away from him just long enough to press San against the wall; his knee slotting between his thighs. San’s back collides with the surface as his shirt rides up uncomfortably. Even with his bare spin pressed against the tile, he can’t pay attention to anything but Yeosang. His tongue slips between his lips, spreading the faint taste of whatever sugary drink he had been downing earlier. It’s vaguely cherry with a hint of citrus. Somehow, it’s entirely Yeosang. 

“Fuck,” San groans as the older pins his wrists above his head. They were the same height, yet somehow Yeosang was able to command the heavens with the grace of an angel. At the sound, Yeosang smiles against him. 

He leaves San to catch his breath as he presses careful kisses along his jawline and down his neck. If they weren’t out in the open like this, he would be more than willing to let the man keep going. Instead, he stops him as the blonde works open one of the buttons on his shirt. 

“Stall,” he huffs, pulling Yeosang further into the bathroom. He feels like a teenager again, sneaking around with dates in seedy places. With both of his grandparents enjoying retirement, it wasn’t like he spent his young adult years hooking up with his exes at home. And Yeosang seems to share the sentiment as he fumbles with the lock on the plastic door. 

“God, what are we doing?” he giggles as San spins him around again. The younger presses a chaste kiss to his cheek before his lips brush the shell of his ear.

“I want to suck you off,” San whispers, feeling the shiver that runs through Yeosang’s body at the suggestion. “Consider it a thank you,” he adds. 

“Please,” Yeosang whimpers, his fingers already finding their way into San’s hair. And without a second thought, San kneels on that filthy bar floor. Maybe tomorrow, he’d regret their first time being somewhere like this. But for now, his only goal was to please Yeosang. 

He wastes no time popping the button on the older’s jeans and pulling them down. But the moment he sees the man’s thighs, he whistles softly. He could crush him, really, and San would be honored. Rather than gawking for as long as he would like, he kisses the supple flesh of one before continuing with his mission. 

With a swift motion, he tugs on the blonde’s short boxers and frees his cock with a cat-like smirk. Yeosang hisses as the cold air hits him, but it falls into a moan when San laps at the tip. 

“You really got that worked up out there, Mr. Kang?” San sings, licking a stripe up the base. It had been a while since he did anything like this, but going by Yeosang’s reactions, he was off to a decent start. So, he doesn’t let his doubt eat at him. 

He lets his lips surround the length, bobbing slowly until he was almost to the bottom. It wasn’t the biggest dick he had ever sucked, but that was a relief. Even so, Yeosang was well-endowed and tears spring to the corners of the younger’s eyes when he feels the hand in his hair tighten. It’s enough of a warning before Yeosang thrusts, accidentally, into his mouth. 

The sudden movement doesn’t make San gag, however, he feels the way the tip of the other’s dick hits the back of his throat. If they continued like this, especially after months of unuse, his voice was going to come out a scratchy mess when they returned to the group. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. You’re just perfect,” Yeosang whines, pitch cutting off when San hums around him. For a moment, San closes his eyes, silently urging the other to use him. Even so, he knows that the CEO would never. However, when he looks back up at the celestial being above him, he is graced with the mess the older has already become.

Rosy cheeks and eyes squeezed shut. One hand in San’s hair and the other slapped over his own mouth. It’s enough to make San’s painfully hard dick twitch in his pants. So, he bobs again and again with hollowed cheeks. He only stops to swirl his tongue around the tip. As the sounds muffled by Yeosang’s palm grow louder, shakier, and more off-beat he realizes the other is almost at his peak. 

But San doesn’t pull off. Especially not when Yeosang tells him to in a frantic chant before spilling down his throat. He swallows, his swollen lips pop off Yeosang’s softening cock with a grin. And in the afterglow, Yeosang is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Especially as the older crashes their lips together, ignoring the taste of himself on San’s tongue.

“Let me–”

“I already did,” San snorts, choosing to ignore the embarrassment that crashes over him. Like a teenager, he already came in his pants. And he was most certainly not looking forward to cleaning them if it stained. Nor was he excited to toss the new fishnets. “We’re even now,” he adds with a wink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

As they pass the mirror on their way out, San almost has to stop to take in the way they shine together. They are both wrecked, San’s forgotten makeup smudged and streaky. But somehow, he doesn’t feel ashamed. To Yeosang’s friends, they were dating. Their secret was mostly their own.

And it stokes the blackened embers of San’s mind. 

He had found a muse. 

When Yeosang drops him off, it’s with a chaste kiss and a yawn. Yet, the early hours of the morning find him at his easel as he paints something he can only recognize as beautiful, relentless fear.

“There’s a package here for you,” Yunho calls, opening San’s door just enough to peek inside. When he realizes that the younger is alone, he steps fully into the room. “I’m assuming your boy toy sent you something. Did he pay you for last night?” 

San groans and rolls over in bed. He could easily shove his head under the pillow to block his roommate out, but no doubt it would end with the other tackling him. Yeosang had actually paid him, against all of his wishes, and transferred $1500 into his account while they were still sitting in the booth. No one noticed the interaction, thankfully, but it was obvious what the CEO’s goal had been. 

In a public place, San couldn’t protest. It would draw unwanted attention. 

“I have no idea,” the artist mumbles. Sleep pulls at his eyelids, threatening to tug him beneath the waves again. When he finally rolls onto his side, his cell phone lights up with three notifications and the glaring time, ‘3:15 PM’. “Shit,” he whispers, already scrambling to his feet.

Yunho takes a step back, eyebrow raised. “You don’t have work, do you? I was going to wake you up–”

“No, I don’t,” San says quickly. “I have a project due in class tomorrow and an essay tonight. I completely forgot about it.” He grabs a hoodie from the back of his desk chair and waddles briskly into the kitchen. Hongjoong, being the saint he is, stands at the coffeepot with a smirk. 

“Figured you could use this after last night,” the man chuckles, sliding a full mug in San’s direction. It sputters down the counter, threatening to slosh over the cup’s rim. Hopefully, Hongjoong never pulled that sort of move on Seonghwa; the CEO might have an aneurysm because of the recklessness. 

San grunts out his thanks, tipping the hot drink past his lips without letting it cool. As much as he would love to take the time in crafting his perfectly sweet regular, the unfettered dark liquid does its job. By the time he drains the dredges, Hongjoong and Yunho have both moved back to the commons. 

“Come open this!” Hongjoong calls excitedly. “I want to know what your daddy bought you.” The name makes San’s stomach lurch.

“Don’t call him that,” he mutters, wandering toward the commotion. If they wanted to turn the living room into a chaotic battleground, he wouldn’t stop them. “He has a name.”

Hongjoong shakes his head with a snort. 

“I know his name quite well, dweeb,” he fumbles for a pair of scissors on the coffee table. “If it quacks like a duck, then it is a duck.” Hongjoong dodges the cuff that Yunho aims at the back of his head. When the redhead mimics biting his wrist, he squeaks and scuttles away.

San takes the tool from him with a sigh. Of course, he was excited to receive a gift. However, Yeosang had already done so much for him. He couldn’t possibly imagine what he had delivered in such a large box. But as the blade pierces the packing tape, he realizes that it’s not just one thing.

Luxury skincare products, consisting of snail extract and herbal medicines, are the first things that draw his attention. As Hongjoong stares into the collection, his jaw drops. He lifts a burgundy case, decorated in gold and multi-colored florals, from the collection. The History of Whoo branding shines brilliantly in their dim apartment lighting. 

“He bought the entire Jinyulhyang set? This is like $300 on its own,” Hongjoong gasps, fumbling with the elegant packaging. “I’ve been asking Hwa to buy me one for months, but they’re hard to find.”

Yunho peers over his shoulder, eyes falling onto the other things, mostly clothes, makeup, and a new set of fishnets. He smirks when he lifts an album out of the box. With a low whistle, he grins as he flips it around to face San. It’s  _ My Chemical Romance _ ’s “Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge”, signed by all of the past members in silver marker. It would be an understatement to say that San’s heart tumbles into the pit of his stomach.

“No fucking way,” San murmurs, reaching for the plastic case. “Where did he get this?” 

To think that their one conversation about the band stuck in the CEO’s mind was the same as walking a plank. When he reached the end, he wondered if he would tumble into his emotions gracefully. 

“Are you sure he’s just a sugar daddy?” Yunho asks. “He’s starting to seem more like your rich boyfriend.”

The cotton candy blocking his heart from his brain melts quickly under pressure. With a sigh, San pinches the bridge of his nose. This was what he had wanted, right? Nice things and good company. Someone to take care of him without distracting him from work. And that was what Yeosang wanted too. 

But thoughtful gifts and soft goodnight kisses? That wasn’t part of the contract. While San wanted it to be, so desperately, he also knew the way that Yeosang seemed to value communication. Rule following. So, with a strangled whine, he pushes the box a little further away. They needed to talk. 

“San,” Hongjoong mumbles, “take a breath, baby. Go do your homework, you can deal with everything else later.”

And for once, San listens. 

He doesn’t talk to Yeosang about it. Instead, he thanks him for the gifts and spends his evening delving into his assignments with a fizzy heart and mind filled to the brim with uncertainty. He goes to work, day after day, and class when he can.

It’s easy to lose himself to the repetition that comes with life. Customers come into the coffee shop with ridiculous orders, but he grins and bears it. Anything for a tip. Anything to keep the overdue tuition statements from rolling in. No matter the way his limbs shake with every step or how his eyes fall shut while he waits for the little bell above the sleepy bookstore door to chime. 

His grandparents ask during his visit home, but he only laughs it off in favor of feeding Byeol cat treats. He was tired, however, there was still so much left to do.

Just as he begins to wonder when he would see Yeosang again, the older man’s email lights up his phone screen. A shooting star through a cloudy sky. 

**Kang.Yeo99@LoanStar.com**

There is an award ceremony this Saturday.

It’s big, formal, and boring. 

Would you care to join me? I miss your smile. 

**07Sanshine10@LoanStar.com**

Of course! Boring is never good.

I’ll take off work. (:

It’s only after the response is well on its way that his exhaustion-addled mind processes the compliment.  _ His smile.  _ Yeosang missed something as silly as his smile. Sunflowers might as well spill from his lungs with the radiance that blossoms in his chest. 

But when the day of the event rolls around, the scythe of life tears him down relentlessly.

It had been a full and heavy week. Despite promising to ask for the day off, he never had the chance. His boss was desperate for someone to take the morning shift at the cafe. And as a people pleaser who loved the owner, he agreed quickly. 

His shift was supposed to end at 3 PM, but the sudden rush of customers continued to push him back further and further; like a tidal wave dragging remnants from the shore. And maybe he should have sensed that something was wrong the moment he dropped one of the glass carafes on the linoleum. 

“Shit!” he yelped, falling against the counter. He knew his face was red as he ducked down to clean the mess, hands shaking. His attempt didn’t last for long as he attempted to pick up one of the shattered pieces, effectively drawing crimson from the soft flesh of his index finger. With a cry, he watches it drip to the floor; crimson bloom taunting him like the roses on his suit. 

“Sannie!” his coworker, Dami, yells. When she catches sight of the blood, she scrambles for a band-aid from one of the overhead cabinets. “Are you okay?” 

He can only nod, biting his lip and willing away the sting. It was just a stupid mistake, but it would be taken out of his pay; not that he blamed his boss for creating such a rule. Money pulled further from his tuition.

As they clean the floor, relieved that the rush seemed to have died down, his knees wobble like those of a newborn fawn. As he takes his leave, they finally give out entirely. Just before his head meets the tile, he has the sense to catch himself on one of the shelves. 

“Dami?” he calls softly. His voice is feeble and warbly when it reaches his ears. The girl appears in the doorway of the breakroom, eyes wide, as she takes in the situation. Without another word, she holds out her hand for his phone and he passes it to her willingly. 

Yunho and Hongjoong arrive like twin storms rolling in off the sea. 

“Do you do anything in moderation?” Hongjoong grumbles as they help him into the apartment. “I swear, San, you about gave me a heart attack. You know, I told Dami a few days ago to keep an eye on you. Bet your ass, she already was. We spent all of Fabrics III talking about your self-sacrificial lifestyle. Don’t you dare come to the award show tonight.”

As much as San adored him, Hongjoong’s habit of being a strict parent was grinding on his raw nerves. So, with a groan, he throws himself onto the bed and pulls the blankets over his head.

“Joong,” Yunho murmurs. Even though he can’t see them, he knows the brunette is probably trying to tug their roommate out the door. “Let him rest. You can nag him later.”

“I’m not nagging!” Hongjoong grunts, his voice fading as they leave San in silence. 

_ The awards.  _ He had actually been looking forward to it. However, if Hongjoong and Seonghwa even saw him step over that threshold, they would make him turn right back around. He fights stubborn tears as his eyes begin to sting. 

They were right though. He had to take care of himself this time. 

With a heavy heart, he sends Yeosang a quick message before letting his eyelids finally,  _ finally _ , slip shut. 

He wakes up to the feeling of someone settling onto the edge of the mattress. At first, he brushes it off as Hongjoong or Yunho before he remembers that neither were home. Hongjoong was at the event and Yunho dance practice. In a panic, he sits up straight. 

Yeosang stares back at him, surprise dripping from his features.

“Why are you…?” San murmurs, not exactly sure if the other man is real. 

He reaches out slowly, his thumb brushing Yeosang’s cheek, as he cups the man’s jaw.  _ Warm and present.  _ Yeosang leans into the touch. 

“You scared me,” the blonde says softly. His voice is so sweet, like brown sugar and syrup. “Your friend Jongho let me in before he left. Odd, because I’m certain he doesn’t live here.”

The comment makes San giggle. As his laughter fills the air, Yeosang’s nose wrinkles cutely. 

“He most certainly does not.” When San speaks, he feels the older shift on the mattress until he is sitting cross-legged. It’s then that he notices the other man’s outfit. 

It was undoubtedly a suit, but the jacket was missing and so was his tie. Instead, his blouse’s top three buttons were undone and the sleeves were rolled up past his elbows. It tugs at San’s heartstrings as he realizes that it must have been his outfit for the night. 

“Were you nominated?” San asks, swinging his legs out from under the sheets. He hadn’t even bothered to change after work. Yeosang tilts his head, eyes narrowed in obvious bafflement. “For an award, I mean,” the younger clarifies. 

Yeosang’s mouth pops into a plush ‘o’. It’s endearing. 

“We always are,” he says softly. “Usually win too. But Seonghwa can handle it without me. He’s always been better with crowds.” He fiddles with the collar of his shirt absentmindedly. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

San smiles, admiring the way the older’s cheeks flush. 

“I think I’ve been overworking myself,” he admits sheepishly. However, it’s when Yeosang’s face melts into guilt that he realizes his mistake. “Not with  _ Loan Star _ . You’re the only person I work with, and honestly, I don’t even consider this a job.”

“They’re more like gigs anyways,” Yeosang says quietly. Even in the light of the setting sun, San can see the way relief dances over his features.

San nods. “Exactly. I took too many shifts over the last few weeks trying to afford my tuition for this semester. It’s not like the registrar won’t give me an extension, but I can’t afford the late payment interest that they tack on.” 

He frowns as Yeosang intertwines their fingers. He knows the look that the other will have– one filled with pity. Despite all odds though, when he meets Yeosang’s eyes, he only sees soft, deep warmth. As the CEO squeezes his hand, San feels the comfort radiating off of him in waves. 

“I understand where you’re coming from, San. But can you at least promise me one thing?” he asks. San bobs his head gently, confusion gracing his features. “Check in with yourself more often. If your body is telling you to breathe, then you need to listen to it.” 

“But–” 

“No,” Yeosang says firmly. “At the end of the day, you are all that your spirit has. What good does it bring willing it to break?” 

Like a child, he lifts his free hand, extending his pinky. When he raises his eyebrow, the brunette’s gaze drops between the appendage and the angel on his bed. 

“Are you…?”

“It’s a pinky promise,” Yeosang laughs. For a breath, San has half of a mind to smack his shoulder. “You’ve done one before, right?”

“You’re thirty years old,” San snorts, folding in half with the light and bubbly feeling in his chest. “You’re one of the CEOs of a multi-million dollar company and you’re asking me to pinky promise you something.”

Giggles fill the room in seconds. Even as San gives in easily and locks their little fingers together, he can’t seem to stop the high-pitched sounds that pour out of his chest. The way Yeosang makes him feel alive, like clovers spring from his skin and as though sunlight is eternal. He can’t say which of them moves closer until he feels the other’s breath on his lips. But when it comes down to it, he doesn’t think it matters. Not with the paper-thin distance between them.

Before he can close the gap, however, a screeching sound emanates from the kitchen.

“What–”

“Soup!” Yeosang cries, springing off of the bed. “I forgot I was making you soup!”

His voice lingers, along with the feeling of his touch, as the blonde sprints toward the stove with a squeak. And maybe, it shouldn’t be funny. Not when there are ear-piercing shrieks peeling from the smoke detectors; one after another. But San cackles, chasing after the older man. 

When he reaches the scene of the crime, he doubles over, hands on his knees. Yeosang, still wearing pieces of what would have been a heart-stopping suit, is scraping the bone dry leftovers of what looks to be canned chicken-noodle down the sink. Rather, into the long-forgotten, broken garbage disposal. San is gasping and brushing tears out of his eyes by the time Yeosang actually attempts to use the device. 

It gives a mighty roar before sputtering into garbled silence.

“Does your landlord hate you?”

San grins. “Probably,” he says. “I wouldn’t put it past her at this point. She owns the apartment under us and we’ve lived here since before Hongjoong and Seonghwa started dating.”

Yeosang winces with his words, obviously realizing that the aforementioned timeframe encompassed the happy couple’s metaphorical honeymoon phase. 

“I’ll pay to have maintenance come handle it then,” Yeosang mumbles, running a hand through his bangs. He must have slicked them back for the event, but by now, strands were beginning to tumble into his face. And without a doubt, San wanted nothing else than to mess it up even more. 

“Thank you,” San says, taking a step toward the blonde, “for trying to make me dinner. It was…” he fumbles for the proper term. Homey? Comforting? Reassuring? But he settles on what feels right instead. “It was probably the first time anyone other than my grandparents cared enough to do it.” 

Yeosang frowns, “Your friends don’t make you dinner? “

“We hardly eat dinner in the first place,” San chuckles. “We’re university kids. More often than not, dinner comes out of a can.”

“That soup came out of a can,” Yeosang shrugs. “I grabbed it on my way here because I wasn’t sure what your stomach could handle. If you’re feeling up to it, we can order out instead.” 

San takes another step forward, his chest fluttering when Yeosang glances over his shoulder and locks eyes with him. “We could,” he says, boldness taking hold of him. He crosses the space between them to wrap his arms around Yeosang’s waist. 

For a second, the older man’s entire frame stills. With his cheek pressed to his back, San can feel the way his heart begins to race. And then, the blonde wiggles until they’re facing each other. San takes it as a good sign that he isn’t dislodged. 

“What are you doing?” Yeosang murmurs, draping his arms around San’s neck. 

“It’s called a hug,” he responds, giggling when the other’s breath tickles the top of his head. “I guess we’re both learning things tonight.”

Yeosang smiles but doesn’t speak for a moment. And when he does, San wishes that he could block the words out entirely. 

“I saw the painting,” Yeosang whispers. “The one of me. I was trying to figure out which room was yours and the studio door was open. I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to see it, but…” he pauses, once again chewing the delicate skin of his bottom lip. “San, what are we doing?” 

It’s the feeling of icicles melting overhead as they drip down spines. Or the pins and needles from sitting on the floor for far too long. It’s like walking three steps off of the cartoon cliff before realizing your mistake, and just as you grab the conveniently placed root, an anvil falls from the heavens. 

And so, San scrambles for purchase in the only way he knows how. 

“I want to leave  _ Loan Star _ ,” he says suddenly. It’s true; undeniably. But it also isn’t supposed to come out of his mouth. Once the words start tumbling, they don’t stop. “I want this to be over.”

Yeosang’s breathing hitches. Between them, the weight of the world crushes the wildflowers that sprung up in their little corner of the universe. It’s silence, static, and the suffocating tug of cotton as it fills both of their throats. Years from now, they would write the tale of his hubris on stone walls; like a Greek myth or a crash course of things one should never do. 

And when Yeosang’s honey-laden voice dances along his tongue, San swallows the bile that boils him alive. 

“Okay,” he says. It’s so soft that it may just be a figment of San’s imagination.  _ Please _ , let it be just that. “Can I ask why? Is this about last time? If I overstepped–”

“No, it’s not that, Yeosang,” San says quickly, tightening his hold. Maybe he could stay afloat this way. “You’re the greatest thing to ever happen to me. And that’s why I can’t keep this up. I think I’m starting to fall in love with you.”

“San–” 

“Please,” San interrupts, not wanting to hear the rejection that is certain to spill onto the tile like strawberry jam. Sticky and sickly sweet. No doubt filled to the brim with ‘ _ I’m sorry _ ’s and ‘ _ this shouldn’t have happened _ ’s. “You don’t need to turn me down. The contract said— I mean I already know,” he breathes, offering a shaky smile. “But just for one last night, can I ask a favor of you?”

“Anything,” Yeosang whispers. It dusts San’s forehead in starlight and sings a melody that he wants to keep with him forever. The soundtrack of what could have been, but never was.

“Sleep with me,” he says. “Just this once. I want to lose myself in your touch before I’m left with just the ghost of you.” He hardly gets the words out before there are soft lips pressing against his own. 

Yeosang kisses like the sun sets, with certainty and precision. He takes the lead as San whimpers helplessly into his mouth. When they had kissed before, there was urgency; desperation even. But tonight, it’s as though Yeosang aims to carve his memory. Especially as he backs San into the fridge, hands tangled in his hair. 

When he pulls away to nip at San’s bottom lip, he rakes his gaze down the younger’s face. Searching for any sign of regret or hesitation. Instead, he is met only when the veil of wanton lust blanketing his features. Sorrow is probably there too; emotions mingling like rain and dust.

“Are you sure?” he pants, breathless. 

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life, Yeosang. Please,” San begs.

It’s like watching a marble statue come to life as the blonde nods, hands finding each other seamlessly as they stumble to the bedroom once more. 

In seconds, they’re on the bed. Yeosang’s face hovers over San’s for a moment, hair tickling his cheeks as he sucks a bruise onto the younger’s collarbone. It would last for a few days— longer than the feeling of Yeosang’s touch. Or maybe, that alone would haunt him forever,

San doesn’t hold back the saccharine moan that spills from his lips. Not as the searing passion of Yeosang’s mouth decorates his body in marks. Secrets that would linger between only them. Hidden from the prying eyes of eligible suitors.

He isn’t sure when Yeosang pulled the cafe uniform over his head. He also doesn’t know when his own fingers undid most of the buttons on Yeosang’s blouse, exposing the expanse of golden sand. It wasn’t hard to say that his muse was above him; celestial and crystalline. He could paint endless clouds and sunflowers on his skin. A canvas ready for the taking. 

As they rid each other of their remaining clothing, San feels the war song begin to drum up once more. Although, this time, it is no longer a battle cry. It is a mourning anthem for the past, present, and future all in one.

San digs the lube and condoms out of his drawer; letting the numbness consume him as he accepts the path he walks upon. One night with the being before him was not all that he wanted, but if it was what he could have, then there would be no complaints. 

“Tell me if you need to stop,” Yeosang says, pressing a chaste kiss to San’s lips. His hands massage the inside of San’s thighs, avoiding his aching length, and instead brushing over his rim carefully. When San makes no move to stop him, whining pitifully in desperation, Yeosang pops the cap on the lube with a quiet huff. 

The younger listens to the way the liquid sticks to his fingers as Yeosang warms it between them. And when the sound disappears, San holds his breath in anticipation as Yeosang coats his hole just as well. When he wiggles frantically, vying for whatever the older will give him, he hears a soft chuckle. 

“Sorry,” Yeosang says, smile prominent. “You’re just so beautiful.” 

He doesn’t speak as he slides his middle finger into the tight heat. However, the feeling is more than enough for San to release the breath he was holding.  _ Relax _ . 

His delicate whimpers evolve as Yeosang works him open. Every move methodical and calculated, he wonders for a second if the CEO does anything on the fly. Perhaps this was one of those things. 

It’s only when a second finger enters him that the noises leaving his throat grow desperate. High-pitched moans as Yeosang learns just how, and where, to crook his fingers. Even whinier when a third digit is added and scissors the ring of muscle into compliancy. 

“Please,” he cries, his voice raspy already. “Yeosang, I’m close, please. I need you.” 

Coming untouched again was not the memory he wanted to leave Yeosang with.

With a grunt, Yeosang removes his fingers. San’s hole clenches around nothing, his thighs shaking. He used to pride himself on his stamina, but it seemed that Yeosang was out to prove him wrong. As the high edges off of him, leaving his chest a heaving mess, he watches through hooded eyes as Yeosang pumps his own cock a few times for good measure. And then, their gazes meet.

Without a word, Yeosang positions himself at San’s entrance, not once breaking eye contact. And somehow, San doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t want to forget the way blonde strands stick to the older’s forehead or the way his sweat washed away the concealer on his cheek. The petal pink birthmark stands out against his flushed skin. 

San doesn’t want to forget anything. 

He cries out when Yeosang pushes in, agonizingly slow until San begs him to just get it over with. Even when he does, he still gives the brunette a moment to adjust to the feeling of being full. 

“Move, please,” San whimpers, fingers digging into the sheets. Yeosang makes a soft noise and locks their lips. Carefully, he begins to thrust his hips, settling a gentle pace that San would later beg him to break.  _ Faster _ . 

As Yeosang pushes them closer and closer to the edge, he reaches for San’s hand until their fingers intertwine on the pillows. Carefully, he grabs San’s cock and gives a few light strokes. But it’s enough as he presses against his prostate again. The pressure immediately sends San over the cliff.

A tear slips down the younger’s cheek moments before his body rolls among the waves of pleasure, white spilling onto his stomach. Yeosang follows soon after, a deep moan gracing San’s ears like a lullaby. His body collapses onto San, but he makes no attempt to move just yet. And surprisingly, San doesn’t mind the slight overstimulation that comes with the intimacy.

But after Yeosang pulls out and removes the condom, San can’t fight the all-out sorrow that rips through his body at the feeling of emptiness. He plays it off as emotional sex while Yeosang ties off the evidence and throws it into the trash. It’s when the blonde disappears into the bathroom, in search of a washcloth to clean them up, that the reality hits San; rushing over him with startling clarity. 

Yeosang fucks like a lover. 

He cradles San like a lover. Presses featherlight kisses to his cheeks  _ like a lover.  _ He runs his fingers through his hair and giggles deeply when San hisses as they adjust positions to cuddle better. 

But Yeosang would never be his lover.

And after he thinks San has drifted off, the man whispers promises into the sanctity of the night. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t want you to worry anymore. But I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

The words haunt him when he wakes up alone, cold, and sore. Yeosang doesn’t reach out to him. San doesn’t even try. Even when Monday morning rolls around and the email notification appears on his phone in the middle of his lecture. 

‘ _ Your tuition has been paid in full.’ _

No one stops him as he races into the corridor, holding back tears. 

He didn’t do his job. He did nothing, but give a piece of himself over to Yeosang. Out of love; respect. Desperation. 

So why did it feel as though it had been bought instead?

He burns the painting of Yeosang when he goes home. It sets off the smoke alarms even after he throws it into the sink and turns on the tap. It won’t stop the pain, but it will at least drown it out for a while. 

Hongjoong and Yunho race out of their rooms. They hold him as the tears threaten to never end. And he tells them confidently that he fell in love. They whisper only comfort and warmth.

It’s three weeks later when he knocks a jar of marbles off of the book store counter during his shift. As their gemstone tones scatter on the floor, dangerous and catastrophic, he marches into his boss’s office and turns in his two weeks. It wasn’t the jar’s fault. 

Someone told him to think of himself once in a while.

And time passes slowly. Every day threatens him in the best way it knows how: by reminding him just how endless the universe is. But he doesn’t stay stationary or afraid. He continues to live, because that’s what his grandparents want. And because that is what Yeosang asked him to do.

It’s a month later when Hongjoong texts him on a Friday night. He’s out with Seonghwa and probably the rest of the CEO’s group. Things had been surprisingly fine when Hongjoong forced him to join their hangout sessions. However, they only were because Yeosang had been mysteriously absent each time. 

That streak was coming to an abrupt end. 

**Walmart David Bowie (:**

dont hate me pls

i need ur help

quickly 

**Me**

did u finally kill hwa for his $$$$

**Walmart David Bowie (:**

no???? dont say that the fbi might see

its sangie

he’s a fucking mess dude

he finally came out with us, but dude is a wreck

id never ask u to do this, baby, im so sorry

but im getting scared

**Me**

Pin your location.

I’ll be there as soon as I get my shoes on.

He pretends it’s the childish curiosity of seeing the usually composed Kang Yeosang boiled alive by his own mind. But he knows, deep down, that none of this is the older’s fault. He’s not even angry anymore– not at Yeosang. 

No, he’s furious that he let himself fall for someone who warned him from the start that he couldn’t return those feelings. 

So, he takes an Uber downtown and marches into the club with a stone-faced expression and a heart of impenetrable diamond. His facade only falters when he sees the booth the group is huddled around. 

Yeosang’s blonde hair catches the violet light of the atmospheric LEDs. Even from a distance, his beauty stuns San. However, whatever makeup the man had once worn was smeared down his face like inky rain. And when San gets closer, he can see the sheer lace blouse that the other has put on. It leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination as he moves around. 

“San!” Mingi calls, catching the younger’s eyes from across the way. While the man was only two years older than him, his height was outrageously intimidating. He was the same size as Yunho, however, where his roommate had a babyface, the cosmetics model was all sharp edges. He quickly learned, though, that his first impression was very far off. 

Mingi is quite literally the sweetest person alive. Especially as he gives up his seat so that San can sit further away from Yeosang. 

The blonde in question startles a bit when the newcomer slides into the booth. 

“San?” he slurs, eyes widening when they settle mistily on the younger’s figure. “San,” he repeats, a turpentine frown spilling onto his lips. He stares across the table at him, observing the artist like a jewel beetle cast in vibrant amber. When someone clears their throat, Yeosang jumps. 

“Hey, Sannie,” Hongjoong says, eyes flitting between the two men. “An article came out today, speculating that a certain someone had found a new lover.” He looks apologetic as he slides his phone down the glassy surface of the table. “Can you maybe tell that dumbass across from you that you’re not dating your coworker?”

It takes him a nightmarishly long time to process what is being said. However, the photo in the article is most certainly him sitting beside Dami outside of the cafe. To anyone looking at it briefly, it could look romantic. If only San wasn’t painfully in love with the rich bachelor across from him and Dami wasn’t a lesbian celebrating her fifth anniversary with her fiancee. 

“Yeosang,” he mumbles, watching the way the older’s eyes drop to his fingers. He tugs at a stubborn hangnail but refuses to look back up. “I’m not sure why you wouldn’t just ask me about this–”

“Because I don’t have your phone number,” Yeosang slurs unexpectedly. “Never had your phone number. Didn’t wanna invade your privacy.” 

The admission makes San almost pound his head against the booth seat. Of course, he didn’t. They had only ever emailed through  _ Loan Star _ , and after that night, San had closed the account entirely. 

“Yeosang,” he tries again, this time reaching out to cradle the other’s hands. Gently, he pulls his fingers apart until the blonde can no longer pick at the skin. “Dami is my friend. She’s also incredibly in love with her girlfriend and I’m certain would rather drink sriracha than kiss a man.” When Yeosang’s eyes lock onto his, San offers him a reassuring smile. “I think we need to talk, but first, I want to get you home safe.” 

No one protests as he helps the emotionally feeble CEO pry himself off of the leather booth cushion. Hongjoong does the honor of calling a ride while San tries to hold the blonde upright. 

They wouldn’t talk tonight. Instead, he listens to Yeosang ramble on about art and souls as he tucks the man into bed. Half of the things he spews are vaguely coherent poetics. The rest is nonsensical gibberish. What he does catch, however, is the final sentence that slips past his lips as Yeosang drifts off. 

“I’d buy your paintings, you know. Any of them. All of them. I’d hang them on my wall and be okay with letting your ghost waltz with me in the middle of the night. If it meant I got to see pieces of you in my life every day, I don’t think I would have a problem with it…” 

As his words filter into a soft snore, San brushes his hair away from his cheek. Why were they both so determined to spend time with the other’s ghost? It makes San chuckle, near humorlessly, as he stands from his place beside the mattress. 

Before he leaves, he makes sure to grab a makeup wipe from the pack sitting on Yeosang’s bathroom counter. He kneels beside the blonde and sets to work removing the streaky, blotchy mess that the eyeliner, mascara, and shadow left behind. For a moment, he wonders if Yeosang was hoping to find someone in the crowd tonight– anyone to make him forget just for a moment. 

But then, he realizes that it isn’t his business. 

They would talk when the time came and he would listen to every syllable Yeosang granted him. 

He doesn’t even feel right looking around Yeosang’s apartment while the other sleeps soundly. It’s messy, but given the older’s apparent state of mind, whose wouldn’t be. San feels a pang of guilt shoot through his chest as he focuses on his mission.

San leaves behind three things on Yeosang’s bedside table. 

A glass of water, a bottle of Aspirin, and a light orange sticky note with a simple message. 

_ ‘let’s try this again. meet me for coffee? -Sanshine’ _ with his number and a tiny doodle of a sun rising above two small mountains.

Maybe this time, they would make amends for what could have been; what always was. 

It doesn’t surprise him when the next morning greets him with a new contact in his phone and a lunch date. 

“I’m just saying,” San grins, sipping his frappuccino, “you don’t strike me as someone with a sweet tooth.” 

Yeosang pouts, muffin crumbs clinging to his bottom lip like snow. In the last twenty minutes, he realized that the expensive man he had fallen for was a messy eater and preferred no less than four packets of sugar in his coffee. 

A being after his own heart. 

San fights the urge to press a kiss to his mouth. Instead, he settles for reaching out and brushing the man’s lower lip with the pad of his thumb. Yeosang’s attention dances down to the digit, eyes wide, as he meets San’s gaze. 

“You had crumbs,” the younger mumbles, chuckling when Yeosang’s face heats. “Sorry, I should have asked before I–”

“You’re fine,” Yeosang whispers, his breath tickling San’s skin. When San finally pulls his hand away, a blush painting his own cheeks like coral gouache, he chuckles to himself. How did they end up here?

“Why do I feel like I keep taking care of you?” San asks, snorting when Yeosang sticks his tongue out. It should be immature, especially for one of the founders of a luxury organization, but it just comes out endearing. 

“I’m older than you, brat,” Yeosang mutters. Playfully, he flicks the space between San’s brows, laughing as the other whines. “We still need to talk about things.” 

While the admission buzzes through San’s veins like a million tiny bees, he thinks of the future. The wildflowers that threaten to pour from between his ribs, wrapping around his crystal heart but turning toward the sun. 

“We do,” San says softly. “But do you mind if I go first?” 

When Yeosang stills, nodding carefully, San draws in a deep breath. 

“I hurt you. I probably will never find the words to apologize for what I did, however, I want to make it clear why I reacted that way.” His stare could drill holes into the top of the glass-plated table, but he can’t bring himself to meet Yeosang’s wavering expression. Like a man on a tightrope, begging for a net beneath him, but too afraid to vocalize it. So, he continues to spill out his long-mulled thoughts. 

“I should have just told you what I was feeling instead of running away. But I was scared that you would cut me out of your life entirely. I was never here for the money, as much as I appreciate what you have given me,” he breathes. “It was always for you. That night I saw you at the gallery, all I wanted was to know the man beneath those putrid LED lights. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but it was pretty damn close. When you paid my tuition after we slept together, I thought it was your way of tying up loose ends. I love you. And if you would ever be willing to consider a relationship one day, please think of me.”

When he finally lifts his gaze from the table, Yeosang looks near tears. 

“Are you–”

“Shut up,” the older mumbles, using the back of his hand to wipe away the one or two strays that escape. “I can’t help it. The night you pulled me to the rooftop and made me think about how tiny we actually are was the same one that made me regret ever writing that second rule. I thought you never wanted to talk to me again. I’m in love with you, San, and would be honored to give things a try.” Tenderly, he reaches out until their fingers are laced together. “That stupid contract caused more harm than good, didn’t it?” he sighs. 

“Sometimes, they’re necessary,” San shrugs. “But that one rule most certainly did throw a wrench in things.” While his giggle is mostly humorous, he finds a hint of solace in it. It wasn’t as though they knew things would come to this. 

Yeosang smiles and squeezes his hand. There are no thorns this time, nothing that makes San feel as though they’re doing something wrong. Instead, he only breathes in deeply as his heart flutters like a school girl’s. 

“We’re not going to do something cliche like rewrite the contract, right?” San asks, grinning when Yeosang’s nose crinkles up. 

He’s precious this way, drowning in an oversized hoodie in a cozy coffee shop. Even if Dami is standing behind the counter just behind him, making faces at San like she always knew this was coming. Why did San suggest they come to the cafe anyway? Didn’t he get enough of the place during work?

It draws a deep laugh from Yeosang as the blonde shakes his head. 

“I’d rather not. But let’s promise each other something?” he says, eyes warm as they linger on San’s. “Let’s actually talk about things when they make us uncomfortable. Everyone has limits and the last thing I ever want to do is push yours.” 

“Maybe you are almost a decade older than me,” San smirks, shrieking when Yeosang pinches the sensitive dip of his wrist. “I’m calling you mature, you ass!” he snorts. 

“You’re calling me old,” Yeosang responds. His narrowed expression does little to hide his affection. “So, let’s try this again. My name is Kang Yeosang, I’m one of the founders of  _ Eleven-Seventeen Cosmetics _ , and I think I might be looking at the most soulful painting I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kang,” San smiles, watching Yeosang’s face flush with the title. “I’m Choi San, part-time art student, barista, and ex- _ Loan Star  _ affiliate _. _ One time, I started a fight during a gallery show and fell for a face in the crowd.” He pretends to shake the older’s hand, dimples appearing the moment the corners of Yeosang’s eyes crinkle. “I’ve spent too much time in this place lately. Do you want to come back to my place?”

Yeosang stills. “San, let’s not rush back into things–” 

“You dork,” the artist laughs. “My roommates are both home. I just wanted your help with a piece I’m working on.” 

And without hesitation, Yeosang agrees.

The canvas in question is blank as it rests on his easel. It hadn’t been there long enough to collect dust, but it had gathered the memories of the world around them. Still-scenery cast in resin and life. 

It doesn’t have a voice, not yet, but San can only do his best to give it one. And as his brush moves across the material, slow and calculated, he can’t keep his eyes off of his model. 

Kang Yeosang is a ballad of his own making. Full of melodic key-presses and soft-spoken chords, he carves his place in the world. And he sat, unmoving, when San painted the golden tones of sunflower petals and luna wings onto his back. When Yeosang asks what San is working so diligently on, shuddering as the paint slips down his spine, the younger shushes him with a patient ‘you’ll see’. 

And after he is done with the canvas-retained creation, while the acrylic dries under the amber lights of the apartment, Yeosang sees the beauty that San finds within his muse. 

The first portrait San had created of him, burnt and blistered by the fanned flames of the brunette’s initial heartbreak, has been plastered to the new canvas. The destruction did not reach the majority of Yeosang’s face, saving San plenty of work. From the crisp ridges of the piece, he pulled forth wildflowers and crystal clouds. Gradually, they curl into the shape of a body, where they spiral into the very scene that has found its way onto present-day Yeosang’s skin. 

“Are you going to say something cheesy?” Yeosang snickers when San wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him into his lap. The paint on his back has long-since dried, but it still dances onto San’s jean button-up. The shirt was a lost cause already, missing the top three buttons and plastered with at least half a dozen holes. A little paint wouldn’t be the end of the world. 

“I was going to call you my muse,” San snorts. “But I can also call you my sunflower if it lets you live out your cliche fantasies?” 

When Yeosang presses their lips together, laughing into the kiss, San realizes that they were finally what could have been– what always was.

**Author's Note:**

> ❀ Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I always follow back and love new friends.
> 
> \- Cheers! ❀


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